


Summertime (And The Living Is Easy)

by AngelinaVansen (catherineflowers)



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Ensign Janeway, F/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 03:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14803194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/AngelinaVansen
Summary: After his father's capture by Cardassians, 15-year-old Tom Paris attends a family garden party, where he meets a young, reckless, wounded Ensign Kathryn Janeway.





	Summertime (And The Living Is Easy)

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the early 2000s, and my only Janeway/Paris fic.

Janeway had turned up late. Sort of the guest of honour, and she hadn't even shown her face until halfway through. Nonetheless, Tom's father had welcomed her, hugging her, taking in her appearance with concerned eyes. 

Tom had heard stories, of course. How Kathryn had changed since the mission on the Icarus. How different she looked. It was a topic his parents discussed frequently, but always in private, always in the study, or the library, or the kitchen when they thought they were alone. His father was worried.

Not that Owen Paris himself was unscarred. Tom had overheard his father's nightmares, too. Whatever had happened out there, whatever he and Janeway had gone through ...

She did look different. Once, Tom's disdainful 15-year-old eye had cast her as plain. Pretty enough, but safe, in her neatly tailored blouses and with her tidy long red hair. She had been to the Paris home for dinner a few times, once alone, but mostly in the company of other officers. Softly-spoken and a little timid in the company of the Admiral, she had barely registered in Tom's mind before tonight.

Tonight. When she came in. Long legs in tight pants. Black shirt. Black hair, dead straight, a fringe across her forehead. Eyes heavily made up. Now he knew what his father meant. She drank, looked at him, looked away. 

Later, she took off her jacket and sat alone at the edge of the garden, over by the pond. Owen watched her, but did nothing. Eggshells round Kathryn then. Tiptoes. All the time Owen watched, Tom watched too.

Fascinated. The swing of her hair. Undone. Dangerous, those eyes. Dare you to look into them, Tommy, see the demons she's seen. Look there. Dare you.

"Hi," he heard himself say. He was standing next to her somehow, hand out. "I'm Tom ... Paris."

"I know," she said, looking at his hand as though it were something decidedly unsanitary. 

Her voice startled him, too. It was throaty, husky, deep now where it had once been light and delicate. Lauren Bacall, he thought. Twentieth Century actress. She had spent hour upon hour, day after day, screaming into the wind in fields near her home, just to give her voice that guttural quality. 

A cold shiver ran through Tom at the realisation. Whatever the Cardassians had done to her, Janeway had screamed for days on end. Days. 

She was regarding him curiously with her strange, grey eyes, rimmed with heavy make-up. "Shouldn't you be playing with the other kids?" she asked disdainfully.

He waggled his eyebrows, unable to suppress Tom Paris even with her. "Probably," he said mischievously.

She laughed a little at that. "I think your father won't want you to be talking to me, Tom," she said then. "Not that I'm dangerous or anything, but ..."

"I know," he replied softly. "But you looked lonely, and it's a party."

She looked at him and smiled a little. He could tell that in a strange way, she was touched. "Parties ... aren't easy right now," she said, barely above a whisper. "Crowds ... people ... expectations. None of that is good right now."

"You wanna go inside then?" he asked as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He wanted to make her feel at ease. "Come and see my room?"

"Yes, I think your father would be positively thrilled at that prospect," she deadpanned.

"No, it's okay," he reassured. "It's fine."

He got to his feet, and magically, she followed him. 

He went to his father, Janeway one step behind him, mute. "Dad," he said. "Ensign Janeway wants to see some of my piloting skills trophies. Is it okay to take her up and show her?"

Owen looked as though he was thrilled. Kathryn was showing an interest again at last. And in his own pet topic: Tom's genius at the helm. "Of course," he beamed, and then smiled broadly at Kathryn. She smiled back, showing her teeth.

"Very clever," she hissed to Tom as they went upstairs.

He grinned. "I can handle my Dad," he said simply.

They went into Tom's bedroom, and abruptly, he felt ashamed. It was such a child's room: stuffed toys on the bed, posters on the wall, even the wallpaper was cartoon characters. Kathryn picked up a photo from the desk and gazed at it. He didn't know why. It was only an image of him and his father, taken last year at a family wedding.

When she put the photo down, there was an awkward silence. He turned to the cabinet behind her, where his trophies were proudly on display. She stood close, close enough that he could smell her perfume, close enough so he could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck.

"I got this one a couple of months ago," he said, taking the first one off the shelf. "In the Angkor Wat Land Speed Race. I came second, but it wasn't my fault. I'm sure the girl who won was cheating on her fuel mix."

"Really," said Kathryn.

"Yeah," he said, still eaten up at the thought of it. "Her exhaust had blue flames coming out of it. There's no way it should have been anywhere near hot enough to burn blue."

"Is that so?" said Kathryn, and this time, he was convinced he heard derision in her voice.

"What?" he asked her, wondering if she was mocking him.

"I didn't realise we were actually going to be looking at your trophies, Tom."

"No?" He was embarrassed. He had missed something.

"Well, no."

"Well, we don't have to. I mean ... whatever you want to do. I just thought ... you wanted to get away from the party."

"I do."

"Oh, well, of course. So ... whatever you wanna do is fine. Make yourself at home. I've got books, or you can put a holovid on ... or whatever you feel like."

She smiled at him, and handed him her glass. He took a drink, feeling grown-up somehow, somehow responsible and compassionate around this wounded woman. "Thanks," she said at last.

He sat down on the bed, and after a moment, she came and sat down beside him in silence. The mood was somehow melancholy. Heavy. 

"Are you okay?" he asked her.

"Sure. I'm fine," she replied. "It's much better away from the crowd in here, you know?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he smiled.

Then there was a silence.

"Hey, I like your hair," he said because he couldn't think of anything else to say. "It looks good dark."

"Thanks," she said. "I never dyed it before. I just wanted ... to feel differently about myself for a while."

"Well, it's lovely. It really suits you."

Then she broke down. Not a soft one, either, but a real bursting of a dam. She cracked and sobbed, loudly. Her hands went to her face. Immediately, Tom grabbed a tissue and sat down beside her. He placed a hand awkwardly on her back.

"I'm sorry," she wailed between sobs. "God, I'm so sorry, Tom, I'm so sorry ..."

"Hey, it's okay," he said soothingly, and then he did take her in his arms. He pulled her face against his chest and let her cry like that for long moments. Her tears soaked through his shirt, but it was okay. He didn't mind that. It was nice being leaned on.

When her sobbing slowed, he offered her the tissue and let her dry her eyes and blow her nose. He got the impression that crying fits like this were a regular part of Kathryn's day. Suddenly, he felt so sorry for her, this small, beautiful woman whose life had been so cruelly twisted. The evil involved was almost beyond his 15-year-old comprehension. He pulled her back against him, just to hold her close.

They stayed like that for a long while, Tom gently rocking Kathryn in his arms, stroking down her hair. After a few moments, she shifted, and put her arms around his back, hugging him in return.

"Thank you," she whispered softly, lifting her eyes to his.

"Don't mention it," he whispered back.

They hugged tightly, and she kissed his face. Suddenly she was kissing his mouth. Deeply. Too deeply, using her tongue. He was overwhelmed by her. This was not like those embarrassed kisses he had shared with girls at school. This was the real thing. Kathryn was a woman, a grown woman, twenty-four and experienced.

Suddenly he was horribly aware that this was wrong, that this was not the right thing to do. He pulled away, and met her eyes, half-lidded. Passionate. 

"It's okay," she whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you, Tom."

He believed her. She was earnest and beautiful. She wanted to share something with him. Give him something. 

He let her resume their kiss, feeling uncomfortably aware that his father was just downstairs. Owen would go crazy at the thought of him taking advantage of this poor damaged woman, or she of him. Somehow, though, he found that thought quite arousing. This was wrong. Naughty. Forbidden. Concepts which Tom Paris was beginning to appreciate.

He was moving against her, using her body with his. Somehow she had opened his trousers, and was palming his cock, making it throb almost painfully. He groaned into her mouth, unable to stop his hips thrusting. This was the first time anyone else had touched his penis, and the sensation was unbelievable.

"You want to ... go the whole way?" he asked her softly. He had to make sure. 

She smiled at him, a funny, crooked half-smile he hadn't seen before. "Yes," she said simply, sweetly, and then kissed him again for a long moment.

She pulled away and unfastened her own pants, pulling her shirt over her head. Her breasts were milky-white in the black lace cups of her bra, and between them hung a gold crucifix, on a chain. It looked antique; it was probably a family heirloom, he thought absently as he tried to sort out his raging impulses. One part of him was itching to pin Janeway down to the bed and thrust between her legs. Another was ordering him to bury his face in that heaving bosom and find a nipple to suckle on. Sex was a complicated business, he decided.

The problem was, he didn't think he could wait. His penis ached so much it was hurting, and he was crying out with nearly every breath. But it was okay. She was laying down, slipping her panties off, laying back on the bed and parting her legs until he could see the pink of her labia. 

He fumbled slightly, trying to take off his own pants, and she sat up to give him a hand. Together, they pushed his jeans and underpants down to his knees.

"It's okay, they don't need to go any further than that," she said, guiding him down on top of her.

She took hold of his buttocks and moved him, so he was resting perfectly between her legs. She squeezed his cock, hard, so hard that for a moment he thought he was going to come. But then he was okay again, and she was moving him, guiding him slowly into some warm, wet delight. He realised that this was it. He was inside her. Sweet Jesus, he was fucking her.

He made a few haphazard attempts at thrusts and she gasped in discomfort. He was hurting her.

"Stop," she gasped, and there were tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, horrified that he had ruined this, the most incredible gift anyone had given him.

"It's okay," she reassured him. "Just hold still for a minute, can you? I guess I'm not ... as recovered as I thought ..."

"You mean ... the Cardassians?" he asked, but he didn't really need to. The answer was written all over her face.

She didn't reply. She was trying to control her breathing, trying to relax. He, too, really needed a distraction right now, to stop himself from just surging through her heat. He looked over to the mirror on his wardrobe, looked at their reflected image. Her on her back, him on top. Her knees drawn up over his hips, her ankles locked over his bottom. Mating. Engaged in intercourse. He still had his shirt on, and his jeans were round his knees. She had her bra on, one strap sliding down her freckled shoulder. Her bright peach nipples peeked out from over the cups. She was so beautiful, he thought. He couldn't bear the thought of someone taking her body, taking this beautiful act from her in hatred or anger.

"Now," she said, bringing his attention back to her. "Are you ready?"

He didn't reply, but suddenly she thrust up to him, gripping him tight within her wet walls. It brought him to the climax so fast that he let out a funny noise, streaming inside her. It was intense, incredible. It went on for ages, until his throbbing brain thought vaguely that he might go insane from it.

Finally he collapsed, gasping, on top of her. She hugged him tightly, stroking his face, kind of maternal. He was exhausted, blown out, feeling like weeping with joy.

"Thank you," he managed to moan at last.

"You're welcome," she replied. "It was my pleasure."

While he knew that hadn't been strictly true, he smiled at her. She gently guided him as he disengaged from her, a little surprised at the gush of fluids that followed. None of the porn vids he had seen mentioned this.

He tucked his tender penis back into his trousers while she dressed, slowly and meticulously. He lay on his back, barely able to lift his heavy limbs. When she was done, she turned back to him, smiling kindly.

"I'd better get back to the party now," she said softly. "You stay here and sleep. If your father smells that synthehol on your breath ... or that perfume on your skin ..."

He grinned at her. "I can handle my Dad," he said.

"I'm sure you can, Tom," she said with that crooked smile. Then it faded. "See you again," she said, and left.


End file.
